


The Favored One

by nanaa127



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Gen, Magic POV, Magic as a character, Some wartime violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-14 17:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18952939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanaa127/pseuds/nanaa127
Summary: The Nightingale belongs to her, and she refuses to let him go.





	The Favored One

The first time that he bends me to his will, it happens so easily that I almost mistake this small human youngling for one of my own true children. He politely asks me to form a ball of light, and I respond immediately with a cool white flare. The sheer joy that floods through his little frame pleases me, and so I burn a little brighter for him. The other human babes that are with him struggle to figure out how to interact with me, and a few of them never unearth the secret. Amongst those that do, some watch the boy with awe, others with jealousy. It would be that way for a long time to come.

For reasons that are unclear to me, these pale, northern humans insist on using stilted, formal language to communicate with me. It is unnecessary, and I generally find it a bit tiresome and complicated. This boy speaks the same awkward tongue, but with a nimble touch that his kind rarely manage, and it draws me to him. As he talks to me more often, he begins to understand the nature of our conversation, more so than the old ones that are entrusted with his teaching. The clever youngling begins to find his own dialect as he seeks to make our duet more fluid, more effortless. I am not his yet, and he is not mine yet, but I know that it's but a matter of time.

They begin to call him the Nightingale, and I approve of the name. Of all of them, his call is most beautiful to me, and he begins to soar on my currents similar to the way of my own offspring. It is so very rare that I find such delight in engaging with a child of mankind. 

\---

"David, what does it matter?" My little bird, nearly full-grown, constantly watches the other one with eyes that speak of desire. I can taste it, strong and pulsing. It's nearly as strong as the desire that he has for me.

"What do you mean, 'what does it matter'? Thomas, this could change the way we understand magic." The other boy tosses a ball into the air as he leans back in his chair. This one has the same yearning for my Nightingale, but I don't understand it as fully, don't experience it as clearly as I do with my boy. There's an undercurrent of envy to his longing.

"Why does that need to change?"

"Why?" The other one laughs. "Because everything is change, that's why. Besides, doesn't the Nightingale want to know why he's so good with magic?"

My boy shrugs. "It works, and that's enough. Not everything needs an explanation." 

The other one sighs. His frustration bleeds into the air and I shy away from him. This one is full of sharp edges and pointed thoughts that seek to trap me. He wants to pry me apart, to try and measure my true and full nature, and has the audacity to believe that the human mind can comprehend such a thing. He doesn't realize that quantification will not help him understand me any better than he does now, and I'm disdainful of his misguided attempts. He is not one of my favorites.

"Honestly Thomas, sometimes I don't even know why I bother," the other one snaps. 

A jab of hurt spears my youngling and I coil around his pain. "Well, I'm sorry to have wasted your time," he says stiffly, getting up from his perch on the bed. My Nightingale intends to fly out, but the other one snares his wrist. 

"Come now, don't be like that." He reels my boy in and wraps a possessive arm around his waist. "I just want you to share my excitement. This research could provide the answers we've been looking for."

My boy's affront melts away as he softens and forgives. He always does for this other one, no matter how much pain the other one causes. "I am excited for you, David," he says quietly. "I hope that you'll find what you're searching for."

Tendrils of resentment leach out from the other one, but he pulls my little bird in close and holds him tightly. "I will," he says.

He will never reach the end of his quest.

\---

"For the love of God, would you stop skulking about?" The angry demand echoes down the hall of the great house and my Nightingale briefly pauses before making a sharp turn. The scene he comes upon is the one he expected to find. 

"Good morning, Stiles," my little bird says mildly. "Is something the matter?"

The loud, enraged youngling whips around at the sound of my Nightingale's voice, his face red and brows furrowed. My lost girl-child stands to the side, her hands clasped demurely and her gaze fixed firmly on the floor. She doesn't acknowledge my Nightingale's presence, but she feels him acutely.

"I don't know why the masters insist on keeping her," the angry one says. "It's disturbing, the way she creeps around."

My Nightingale leans against the wall, his hands tucked into his pockets. He is relaxed, despite the confrontation. "She's doesn't appear to be doing much at the moment, Stiles. Really, you're raising a fuss over nothing."

The angry one rolls his eyes as a mix of disgust and annoyance rolls from him in waves. "No one asked you," he mutters. Jealous thoughts rattle inside of the youngling, but he wisely keeps them to himself. My Nightingale would not have been pleased to hear them, and despite the angry one's bravado, he doesn't dare cross my little bird. 

My lost daughter and my Nightingale watch as the angry one stomps away. Their faces show the same suppressed amusement. He glances at her once the other one disappears from sight. "What was it this time?" he asks.

My child - the humans call her Molly - hisses with disapproval.

"Mud on the rugs? A spill of gravy?"

She shakes her head.

"Ah," he murmurs as understanding dawns and disappointment floods through him. "I'm sorry. They're still young, and I'm afraid children can be very cruel."

My daughter shrugs. This refuge of stone has been much kinder to her than what came before, and the men that live inside are far preferable to what waits for her outside. The occasional stab of spite that is directed towards her is nothing - an ephemeral bit of emotion from ephemeral beings. She takes pleasure in snapping back, comfortable in the knowledge that nothing can remove her from her chosen shelter. 

My Nightingale offers his arm and she lays her hand on it. "I'm certain we can find better entertainment then riling up poor Stiles," he says. "Some of the lads have been practicing a new fourteenth order spell. I could give you a demonstration, if you'd like?"

His Molly hums with glee, her lips revealing sharp teeth when they stretch into a wide smile. My little bird smiles back, undisturbed by the sight. 

\---

"We're done for, Thomas. We never should have come here." The other one clings to my bird as he limps along on a mangled leg, face twisted and ugly with horror. My Nightingale's own anguish breaks through before he's able to force it back into submission.

"Come on, Mellenby," he mutters. His mouth is set to a grim line as he drags the other one along despite the trembling in his own legs. "We're almost there."

"Those bastards. Those bloody, _fucking_ bastards," the other one mutters.

Salvation lies at the edge of the woods in the form of mechanical birds that are about to take flight. There's a moment of confusion when my human insists that the other one take his place and the other one resists. "Get on the damn glider!" my Nightingale shouts. He all but throws the other one into the plane that is waiting anxiously to take off.

"Nightingale, no!" The other one grabs at my bird but is shoved back.

"You will leave, Lieutenant," he barks. "That's an order."

The other one flinches and hands take the opportunity to grab at him, pulling him back into the body of the glider. My Nightingale is already away, racing back into the darkness that has already erased so many of his kind. I have no particular fondness for those unfortunate dead men, not like I have for _him_ , but I mourn their loss nonetheless. Each death removes a pin that anchors me in the human world, and I don't want to fade away. 

He's now trapped in this snowy, forsaken forest along with the rest of his human companions. He has called upon me often - too often. Unlike my own true children, humans that try to immerse themselves in me, naked and unprotected, become crippled. Dead. My Nightingale has always been careful, but now he tries to drown himself out of what he feels to be necessity. He stands firm in the midst of the hopeless retreat, a solid rock as the other humans flow around him. Something bright and hot flashes in the near distance and he flings up his hand, demanding that I protect. I comply immediately - I would never refuse him - and a swirling field of my own fire crashes against the invisible shield he creates. He throws the wall wide, straining under the effort it takes to stretch his skill so far. _Hold them back_ , he thinks. _Give them a chance to escape_. He is the Nightingale - if he can't do this, then who can? 

He throws himself into my embrace without hesitation, again and again. The staves that he carries as a safeguard have been drained long ago. It's a thrill for me, to be so close to him, my human near-child, my little mortal bird. By human standards he's little no longer, but to me, he will always be a youngling. I'm heady with the offer he's making and I become greedy, wanting to devour him whole and truly claim him. I hold myself back, however. Too many have already died, and I refuse to give up my Nightingale to the same fate.

Despite his immense exertion, the barrier doesn't reach far enough to cover all those under his care, and the screams of those that are caught in the flames are loud enough to rattle the pieces of his shattered confidence. They are perfect echoes of the ones that fell before, and each cry soaks deeply into him. As soon as the heat dissipates, he releases me and almost falls to his knees. My little bird is tired in more ways than one. His enemy is tireless, however, so he hides his exhaustion and fear behind a wall of cold, determined anger and forces himself to run. He has been tasked to defend, and that's what he will do.

"Incoming!" A nearby voice screams and my Nightingale raises his arms even as he continues to run. Two mortar shells are whistling through the air, and he commands me to catch them and toss them back. They explode while under his control, and he deftly weaves me into a curved net that catches the destructive wave of pressure and reflects it all back towards his enemy. He then unleashes two fiery balls of white-hot light that incinerate everything in their path, and there is panic in the distance. A tiny stem of satisfaction unfurls in his chest even as something warm trickles down from his nose and over his lips. He wipes it away and the back of his hand stains red. 

"On me!" he cries, his voice hoarse. He briefly sends up a small blue beacon to guide the remainder of his people to his position. 

One red-haired man runs up to him, breathless and eyes wild with barely contained fear. "Captain," he gasps. My Nightingale doesn't recognize him but I do. "What do we do?"

"Retreat. We head for the western front," he says. The eastern front is closer, but he thinks there's too much risk in confronting the Soviet witches. It is a wise decision; another of my favorites lurks amongst them, and she will not be merciful.

The redhead blanches. "That's two hundred miles away."

My Nightingale nods. Just the thought of crossing such a distance makes him want to lie down and hide, but he beats back his despair. He will go as far as he can, and keep his people safe for as long as he can. 

\---

The pain in his head is a near constant, now. He stumbles to his hands and knees and vomits once more, unable to hold it back any longer. My bird pants as he fights to catch his breath and to gather up the remnants of his strength. He can hear the frightened whispers around him - _The Nightingale is weakening, he won't make it, what will we do if he falls?_ We both know that he has overstepped the bounds that keeps our interaction safe, and it's only his iron will that prevents him from succumbing.

A hand lands on his shoulder and my Nightingale flinches. "Captain?" It's the red-haired one. My bird calls him Hudson. The redhead also speaks to me, but his fluency is a drop of water compared to my Nightingale's ocean. "Are you alright?"

 _No._ "Yes," he breathes out. He spits and shovels snow into his mouth. The burning cold on his tongue clears his vision, and he pushes himself to his feet, swaying precariously. They're so close to their destination, and there are so precious few of his people left. He'll push on, just a little further, and I will help him get there.

A firm hand grabs his arm unsolicited, but he is too tired to pull away. "I'd like to request a short rest, sir," the redhead says. "We're all exhausted." My human silently acknowledges that they have been pushing very hard, racing through unfamiliar territory short on both food and sleep. 

"A few minutes," my bird says. "Then we move."

The opportunity slips past them as a baying in the distance makes his head snap up. _No, no! Not when we're so damn close!_ The creatures that have been tracking them are persistent, dangerous. I know, because I have made them so. There's a low moan of fear from one of the humans and they shuffle like a herd of helpless prey that can sense the approach of a hungry predator.

"Run," he cries. "We should only be a few klicks from the front. You're going to make it, by God!"

They begin to flee, and as the eager yelps and growls of the creatures close in on them, my Nightingale turns and calls upon me once more. He can see them now - impossibly large, furry monsters that are bounding towards them on four long, powerful legs. They are nearly impervious to forces that would readily kill other living things, and so he resorts to delaying them instead. He orders me to unravel the earth, and I do as he bids even though we know there will be a price to pay. As the creatures come closer, the ground beneath their feet begins to crumble away with a loud roar, and they fall into a wide, deep pit with a yelp of surprised frustration. The pain is blinding but he holds on, forcing the abyss to grow wider and deeper, so deep that they will not be able to climb back out for days. 

A sharp explosion cracks through the cold night air and my Nightingale jerks in shock. He lets go of me abruptly as his legs fold beneath him and he collapses in a heap.

"Sniper!" someone screams. He needs to rise, but his limbs don't want to cooperate. Something peppers the ground near his head, sending up a small white puff of snow and dirt. 

"Bloody hell," a voice says above him. The words are tinged with pure awe. The red-haired one hooks his hands under my bird's shoulders and begins to drag him away. My Nightingale groans as the motion sets off a firestorm under his ribs. "Sir? Can you hear me? Do you think you can walk?"

"Go," he gasps. "Leave me and go." He's too close to the edge now, and he has gone as far as he can. All that remains is for him to take the final leap into dark space.

"That's not how this ends," the redhead grits out. "You've brought us this far, captain. I'll carry you on my back the rest of the way if I have to."

The threat is enough to prod my Nightingale into gathering his legs underneath himself in a weak attempt to rise to his feet. The redhead wraps his arm around my bird's waist and hoists him upright. "A little help here!" the red-haired one shouts. Another man scrambles to provide additional support.

There's another crack and the redhead asks me to shield them. The request is a bit clumsy, but I comply immediately. Bullets bounce off a barricade of solid air, thudding loudly as each one hits. The redhead maintains the barrier as the three of them lurch into an ungainly, lumbering run.

Warm wetness blooms too fast across his clothing and ice takes place of the lost blood, slowly freezing out the hot agony in his head and his side. My Nightingale is dying. He knows it, and I know it as well. He wishes that death would hasten its claim so that his two companions can be freed from their duty, but I can't bear to let him go. Not my lovely little Nightingale, not the human child that dances with me with such joy and ease. I can't repair the damage, not without a guiding hand, but I can slow the life that is seeping away from him. 

I stem the flood, but it's not enough and my Nightingale continues to fade away. He's too close to slipping from my grasp, and so I choose to bestow on him a singular gift. Humans called the flow of energy that sustained their life many different things. To me, she is simply a sister. We aren't the same, but at the moment, we are similar enough to serve my purpose. I envelop my bird and gradually begin to leach into the empty gaps left behind by my sister as she tries to escape his shell. I replace what he has lost and slowly, steadily, I can feel his retreat grind to a halt. 

When they cross over the line, my Nightingale is draped limp over a soldier's back. "Medic!" the red-haired one yells as they're greeted by their allies. "I need a medic _now!_ " My bird is cold and silent and still, but he lives. 

He is alive, and he will become one of my own. I am elated.

\---

He pauses by the stairs that lead up to his home, and wonders whether it can still be considered as such. This institution the northern humans have build in celebration of me used to be full, but now it sits before him quiet and nearly empty. I wouldn't have returned here, if not for my Nightingale and my lost daughter.

He wearily climbs up the steps and the doors open silently for him. As he passes through, he finds his Molly waiting for him in the foyer, her fingers tightly clenched and anxiety swimming in her eyes as she drinks in the sight of him. She is exactly as my Nightingale remembers, pale and thin with long, dark hair, and he's suddenly overcome with sickening grief. It strikes him like a physical blow, leaving him breathless and stunned. His Molly is all that remains of the life he lived before. Her, and this vast stone structure that is too big for the two of them. The enormity of the change hadn't struck him this hard even when he'd spent days, weeks, months, carving names into walls. He looks at her and thinks that if he has been lonely, she must have been so as well. They both mourn the same loss, and there is cold comfort to be found there. 

"Molly," he says softly. "I'm so very glad to see you again."

Her lips press into a thin line and there is such profound relief on her white face that he steps forward and gently takes her into his arms. Molly stiffens in his embrace when she senses the difference in him, but then relaxes. He is, in essence, the same as he ever was.

The moment is brief, but it's a cooling balm to the raw, gaping rents that have been torn into my Nightingale. "Well," he says briskly as they break apart, standing straight and stiff, "I imagine that old Wilkinson must have left behind a mountain of work when he retired. Let's see to it, shall we?" He leads the way and his Molly trails after him. Her eyes never leave his back.

Despite all that has happened, or perhaps because of it, my Nightingale has been drifting away from me. The time he devotes to our dialogue is less than it ever was, and he is wary of my touch. Our contact scalds him with the knowledge that even his exceptional facility wasn't enough to save his companions. And so I recede from him, but it is a temporary state, as I am already an inescapable part of him. 

\---

"How did you come to be aware of magic, then?"

"My grandfather, sir. He was a practitioner. He might have encouraged me to become one myself, if it had been an option."

"I see." My Nightingale suppresses a sigh and rubs his fingers against his forehead. He briefly considers asking for the grandfather's name and then stops himself. There is a flash of regret that he closes off immediately. "You realize that I'm not looking for an apprentice."

"Oh - " the young human male sitting across from my Nightingale is surprised. "Oh no, sir. I'm not looking to become one. My interest in magic is purely theoretical."

My Nightingale relaxes in his seat. He finds the other one's conviction reassuring. "I see. In that case, I must warn you that this position will likely become obsolete in the near future."

"Are you planning on retiring?"

My little bird huffs amusedly at the question. He is little no longer; time moves fast for mortals, and especially so for humans. It has left its mark on my Nightingale and he's already entering the twilight of his life. 

"Perhaps," he says dryly. "But regardless of my own age and career choices, magic is on the wane. I imagine that it will disappear completely soon enough."

The young human male sitting across from him shrugs and grins shyly. "I'm still willing to take on on the responsibility until that day comes, sir. Besides, I'll be at Oxford already."

My Nightingale nods in approval. "Very good. Well then, Mr. Postmartin, welcome aboard. I'll be in contact once I speak with the commissioner." He shakes the young male's hand in a human gesture of goodwill and then excuses himself. 

He still knows me well, despite the distance between us. My presence in this place grows ever fainter, as it has been for a span of human time. This world has not recovered after the loss of so many of my partners. I cannot - will not - suffer the loss of my favored ones, of my Nightingale. And thus, I have begun to push back his death once more, subtly reversing the decay of his flesh and renewing its vigor. I am now intimately familiar with the ebb and flow that sustains my Nightingale. We have been entwined long enough that his life energies and my own are almost one in the same.

He walks slowly down the stairs and out into the city. His tall, proud bearing is bowed under the weight of his years. The aching pain that has settled into his joints and the stiffness of his limbs remind us of his body's breakdown as it slides towards its demise. It's always like that for mortals, but the slope is much steeper now than it was before, almost as steep as it was when he nearly slipped through my grasp during the war. My Nightingale is indifferent to the end that is approaching him, and believes that he will not rebuff the embrace of death when it comes for him again. He isn't yet aware of the changes that I have wrought in him. I will not let him go, and so he'll live, and continue to live in a state that pleases me the most until I am ready to release him. He and my other chosen will anchor me to this world until there are more humans to share in that privilege.

\---

A machine beeps at my Nightingale's side, keeping time with the steady beats of his heart. He is sleeping the deep, untouchable slumber of healing, and I know that he won't surface until his body deems that it is ready.

My little bird has been harmed once again by the weapons that humans so frequently bring to bear against one another. The bloodthirstiness of humans is not unique amongst mortals, but their capacity for spasms of random violence is remarkable. This time, when the bullet tore through my Nightingale, I was ready. I was not going to allow my little bird to leave, no matter how terrible the wound. Not yet.

He was once uncertain about what was happening to him, but no longer. True to his nature, my Nightingale simply accepted his newfound youth as the gift it is and has gradually returned his attention to our conversations. As I had hoped he would, he has finally taken a youngling under his wing and is slowly introducing his bright little starling to me. 

The dark-skinned boy has already taken his first steps towards me, has already found delight in our first meaningful contact. His command of the language that connects us will never have the same natural ease as my Nightingale's - that is unsurprising - but the apprentice is sharp and eager, his mind quick and agile. The youngling is chaos to my Nightingale's orderly focus, but the starling's inquisitive nature entices him and has awoken an echo of longing that he thought was long dead. I am warier of my Nightingale's choice for apprentice; this child is driven by a curiosity that tastes very similar to that which possessed the beloved one from my Nightingale's past. However, true respect for me is cradled within the apprentice's reckless need to know and it satisfies me, for now. 

The apprentice is watching over my Nightingale, his fingers tentatively wrapped around my little bird's hand. I approve of the gesture - it is rare for anyone to offer my Nightingale a touch of unassuming comfort. The youngling is weary and unsure, unable to think clearly in the face of his own exhaustion. Soon, the apprentice's fatigue overcomes his concern and he succumbs to his own need for sleep. 

I am once more left alone with my Nightingale, my brilliant human child. I am his and he is mine, and it will be so until the day comes when I dare to let him go.

**Author's Note:**

> Still wondering about Nightingale's unnatural lifespan... This probably didn't make much sense but it was fun to write - thanks for reading!


End file.
